


You Know How To Whistle, Don't You?

by 105NorthTower



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Bingo, Denmark Street, F/M, First Kiss, Footware, KonMari | Marie Kondo's Tidying Method, Obsessing, Strike's flat, The stairs, filing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29340336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/105NorthTower/pseuds/105NorthTower
Summary: Acciohappy made me do it. Um yeah. So this is She Knows How to Whistle from Strike's POV. S'gonna be angsty but I'm trying to work in some bingo.It'll help if you read She Knows How to Whistle (Robin's POV) first.
Relationships: Nick Herbert & Cormoran Strike, Pat Chauncey & Cormoran Strike, Pat Chauncey & Robin Ellacott, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 36
Kudos: 61





	1. The Thirty-Nine Steps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Acciohappy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acciohappy/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike recalls his first encounter with the steps.

Strike recalled two events connected with the stairs to his Denmark Street offices with perfect clarity.

The first was his initial visit to the building as a prospective tenant, when The CB Strike Agency existed only in his head and on a few sheets of A4 that Ilsa had cobbled together from her dim recollections of loathed course modules on company law. 

As he climbed the staircase behind an enthusiastic, young estate agent, he clearly recalled him saying, 'Fantastic old thing, this birdcage lift. Not working today but the landlord is getting it fixed." A week later, he had signed the lease and used a sizable chunk of his capital as a deposit, despite the stairs, the non-operational lift and the general dilapidation of the building. 

He viewed other places, but none with the same feeling of being at or at least near essence of things. True, the city's financial hub, seat of government and temples of shopping were all elsewhere, but those were not his concern. Denmark Street and the surrounding area seemed to whisper more of disappointment, adultery and deceit, and from those he could make a living. 

The second memory was just as clear, but sometimes it presented as if enclosed in ice, obscured by a second surface that had become hazed and cracked by having been mulled over, returned to and relived so many times.

Lastly, in the early hours of this morning, when Strike's usual recurring dream of a tight, rumbling, jolting space dissolved into a confusing jumble of sensations: rushing, a sudden unexpected blow, the feel of flesh and silk slipping through his fingers and the sickening certainty of failure. Strike awoke with a gasp and instantly remembered that he had caught Robin before she fell. 

He didn't know why his subconscious was trying so hard to convince him otherwise.

He only knew that when he put his hand on the brass plate that protected the Agency's door, he always glanced at the new name the signwriter had added. 

Just to be sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Thirty Nine Steps, John Buchan (1915)


	2. The Spy Who Came in From The Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike has it bad, and that's not good.

"I've never worked anywhere that doesn't put numbers before letters," Pat said firmly. "Of course, it's your filing system and you are the boss."

Strike bit back a reply and placed another batch of receipts on Pat's desk.

"When I worked at the British Library ..."

Strike was five hours into the Pat filing monologue, running on biscuits alone, when he heard the welcome sound of Robin's feet on the stairs. Never was a game of Robin Bingo more overdue. 

It was Nick's idea, concocted at a drunken evening in his local, when Strike revealed rather too much about Robin, and about himself. The next morning, he'd called Nick and begged him not to tell Ilsa anything, and Nick had promised with the condition that Robin Bingo become a thing. 

It went like this. At some point shortly after reaching the office would she: 

(1) Soothe the ruffled feathers of a member of staff?  
(2) Do something completely mundane that Strike would nevertheless think about fondly as he lay in bed? or  
(3) Come up with a new idea that drove a moribund case or the business forward?

If Strike got all three, he was committed to meet Nick for a pint and discussion about his situation. Strike settled himself on the farting sofa.

"Pat!" Robin began, as she hung her coat and bag. "Don't tell me you're still at it? How much is there left? Oh bugger. We don't deserve you. I'll make some tea. I know we're useless at filing but is there anything I can do?"

Strike accepted tea. She looked amazing. It was cold outside and her cheeks and the end of her nose were pink. Some crystals of snow had caught in her loose hair and melted to droplets, and she shook them free as she moved.

"I've been all over today. So cold! My feet are like ice."

She sat next to Strike and unzipped her left boot, easing her fingertips inside the creaking leather and down her stockinged calf, pushing the boot slowly to the floor. It landed with a soft "thunk" and she swapped feet and did the same with the right. She picked the boots up and stowed them neatly at the side of the sofa, and stretched her legs out, curling her toes and making a soft sound of relief. 

"If it's OK with you two, I'm going to stay in my socks for a bit. Give my feet a break!" 

She stood and padded softly into the inner office, leaving damp footprints on the lino.

Strike breathed out. 

"Oh!" She was back. "I had an idea. I think I know how we can get Two Times off the books without him thinking we've realised he's a weirdo. If we ...'"

Strike pulled his phone out of his pocket and texted.

**Full house. I'm heading for The Grapes if you're free.**

Grabbing his coat, he turned towards her concerned expression, "Just popping out for a smoke ..." 

Pat Chauncey threw him a shrewd glance, as if to say she saw the fatal error in the spreadsheet of his soul and it came as no great surprise. 

"... before I strain something being nice."

***

An hour later, he climbed to his office again, mentally cursing each step. 

With his hand on the brass plate, he paused. Pat would be gone, leaving his partner alone. Perhaps he could check to see if her socks were dry.

_Oh fuck off, Strike._

His flat was quiet, dark and cold. He threw his essentials on the counter, shrugged off his coat and rested against a stool, ignoring the bleep of texts arriving, willing his mind into submission.

The texts were from Robin, about the rota. He smiled at the last one, typed a response that undid all the work of the last ten minutes, told himself he didn't give a fuck, and pressed send.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spy Who Came in From The Cold, John le Carré (1963)


	3. Room at the Top

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not Strike's night.
> 
> (yet)

Nick had been understanding, as he always was, but Strike couldn't fault his conclusion.

"Oggy, you've got to shit or get off the pot."

"Charming. Although what do I expect from a gut doctor?"

"You want it sugar-coated? OK, come on Saturday and let Ilsa find you a blind date from Chambers. She'll be at least 5' 10, very fuckable and a cynic about long-term relationships because of all those divorces she deals with. You can have our spare room and blow each other's minds."

"No, thanks."

"Why not?"

Strike shrugged, "Just not in the mood."

"Not in the mood for food, beer and shagging?" Nick raised his eyebrows. "I rest my case."

"Please! Ilsa rests her case. You give me your diagnosis."

"I prescribe a short course of talking to Robin."

"I'm not risking the business, Nick."

"Oh, it affects the business. Talk to your business partner."

"Some friend you turned out to be." Strike grumbled. "May as well be Ilsa sitting there."

"Don't talk to Ilsa and me, then. Talk to your best friend."

What more was there to say? Strike had emptied his pint, stood, and slapped Nick on the shoulder. "Our confidentiality agreement still stands, mate."

Nick grunted his assent, and shouted after him, "Come Saturday anyway. Two out of three's not bad!"

***

The mood lift he gained from Nick's company was short lived. On the way back to Denmark Street, Strike's thoughts had tripped down a well-worn spiral. A declaration would change things between them in an utterly unpredictable fashion. The Agency, on which six people now depended for their livelihoods, would be at risk. If it all went tits up, he'd lose his partner, his best friend and his lover, all at once. Best case, she felt the same way, but he'd never succeeded in holding onto a relationship. Worst case didn't bear thinking about.

Sitting in the dark in his flat, he tested the arguments again and found them sound. What was he doing, sending come hither texts to her? For fucks sake, she'd better be on the tube before picking it up.

There was a knock at the door. 

It really wasn't his night.

"Strike? Are you there?"

_She was allowing the smooth steering wheel of the Land Rover to slip a quarter turn under her hand as it corrected itself after a roundabout._

"Just change the rota and text me what you've done. I'm fine. Go home."

_She was swiping at the screen of his phone, trying to find a picture she wanted him to see. Each swipe made the phone dip slightly in his hands and she was clouding him with her perfume._

The door to the flat opened. _She absolutely cannot be here. Not now._

"Robin ... I'm not good company right now. Best I see you tomorrow."

_She was sipping her wine in Ilsa's kitchen, tracing circles around the base of her glass with a single finger, incorporating beads of condensation as they dropped slowly down the stem._

God, he wanted to touch her. He wanted that more than anything in life, right at this moment. The bastard consequences go fuck themselves.

_She was leaning on the counter in front of him._

She was leaning on the counter in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Room at the Top, John Braine (1957)


	4. Fahrenheit 451

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spit it out, Strike, we've all got homes to go to.

"I'm so tired of wondering what it would be like to have you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury (1953)


	5. Appassionata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oooo, a lock-in.

Strike was reminded of a raw trainee teacher, who'd appeared in his primary school classroom at St Mawes' to cover for the unexplained absence of Mrs Walters.

He couldn't remember her name, but she'd broken through the mundanity of their science lesson on the planets with a barnstorming description of the beginnings of time and space. How neither had existed until a singular and unknowable event had created them and energy. How these things had expanded to fill the void, and the universe grew from nothing to unimaginable dimensions in a fraction of a second. How it was tempting to imagine standing at a safe distance and watching the bang but that until it happened there was no space to be in, and that all the things that seemed to us eternal and immutable: matter, sound, gravity, came slivers of time later, out of the seething broth of heat.

His words seemed to be from outside existence, but now they were out of him and growing, and a bubble of expectancy, fear and anxiety that had started small in Strike's gut was expanding and creating their world again as it grew.

He risked a glance at Robin. She seemed focused on some internal dilemma. Perhaps thinking about the Agency. About the friendship that was so important to both of them. About their mutual friends. About letting him down in her gentle but direct way.

There was no good way out of this. Perhaps they should have bitten the bullet and been straight with each other after her wedding, or when she left Matthew. Or he should have sent Barclay home and told her how he felt after their disastrous meeting with Oakden.

The spark between them had been contained too long. It was about to break free and there would be nowhere safe to stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appassionata, Jilly Cooper (1996)


	6. To Have and Have Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Done! I think the last paragraph is a bit Dorcus Pengelly but I can't get it to come out any different. Anyway, there's nothing wrong with Dorcus Pengelly, it's only snobbery that keeps her off the Booker shortlist. 😁
> 
> I hope you enjoyed Strike's POV. Thanks again to Acciohappy for encouraging me. This was actually a lot more fun to write, possibly because I'd already got them snogging and wasn't so afraid of it.

"I think, that I'm going to kiss you."

Strike almost laughed at this unexpected puncturing of the bubble of tension in the room. _She won't, of course,_ he thought, _but it's a good line._

"Yeah?"

"I think so."

Robin, he knew, would die in a fire before physically imposing herself on a man. He turned to face her, got comfy and joked, "Should you go being so bold without holding a team meeting?"

"Shut up, Strike. I'm a partner."

She straightened herself and gave the impression of a person on a rollercoaster, thinking better of it just in time to get off. _I really don't see your punchline here, love,_ he thought, _but I'm damned if I'm not getting a kick out of trying despite everything._

"Now?"

'Uh-huh. Right now."

When it came it was revelatory. Her mouth met his with force, art and passion, wiping the smile from his face and any thought of the business from his mind, or Charlotte, or friendship, or anything but the need to keep kissing her at all costs.

She stopped and stepped away.

Strike felt the ground shifting under his feet. What was it? What was this sudden sensation of free fall? _You don't know if she wants you,_ he thought. _You turned this moment over in your head a thousand times, and sometimes she regretfully rejected you because of the Agency, and sometimes because friendship is too important, and sometimes she didn't reject you at all, but never in the farthest flights of your imagination did she kiss you like that and hate it._

"OK."

"What does that mean? What's 'OK' now?"

Robin unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it fluidly off her shoulders, piling it neatly on the counter. Strike's sense of being master of his destiny was fracturing all around him.

"Oh Christ, why are you doing that?"

"I want to know how your mouth feels."

"Is this really how it's done?"

"It's how I'm doing it." She knocked his feet wider apart and stepped into him

"Strike, do you want to ..."

 _Bear. Woods. Pope. Catholic._ Her skin was warm and her hips shimmied slightly under his hands as he breathed on her neck 

She closed her eyes. Again, his perspective shifted. An idea almost too awful to contemplate occurred to him. She was an unfailingly kind person. She would put aside her own trauma, feelings, desires, to make another fulfilled. Hadn't her marriage shown that? And she wouldn't even recognise that she was making another awful sacrifice - she would find a kind of home in it, a shelter from the past and a guard against the future.

"Are you here?"

"Cormoran?"

"If we're doing this, I need you here with me. I'm not your safe haven, Robin. Not your panic room. Not when it comes to this. I want it all."

"I know."

But he didn't know. Wasn't sure. Not until he pulled her into the core of him and heard her joy at finally being there.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Have and Have Not, Ernest Hemingway (1937)


End file.
